


Hurts More Than A Bullet

by lailizabeth



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Battle of Brandywine, But Mostly Hurt, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, but probably inaccuracy too, just assumed, no actual death, schuylkill river
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9131848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lailizabeth/pseuds/lailizabeth
Summary: The love story of Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens, as witnessed by Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Finally decided to write this, instead of letting it sit in my head for all eternity. I really did try for historical accuracy, but I had to take some liberties for the purpose of Pain™, as I will explain in the end notes. Pardon my français deux French, I'm still learning.

Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette never met someone with quite as fierce a fire inside him as Alexander Hamilton. It was impossible to look in those eyes, filled with passion, without falling headfirst into the consuming flame. When he spoke, every word brimming with such conviction, those who listened were met with the curious urge to feed the great fire, to become kindling in order to help it grow, so that maybe it would stretch and spread and inspire warmth in every corner of the earth. Alexander Hamilton was magnetic, he had a pull to him that grasped at anything and anyone it could reach, trapping whatever would let it. Some could resist the pull better than others. John Laurens was not among the lucky few.

John was the embers. He burned without the ferocity of the articulate flame, but he burned, on and on. Never had so strong a set of morals graced the Marquis' path, and never would they again in his lifetime. John Laurens burned and yet he was gentle, a soft glow sometimes so subtle it would go unnoticed, able to be ignored until, inevitably, a breeze passed by and it bursted as bright as it had started.

Lafayette was fortunate enough to witness the first time they met, to see two great forces collide.

At first, he didn't notice. He didn't notice the look in John's eyes when they first met Alexander's. He assumed, perhaps, that it was no different than the usual impression Hamilton had on others, no more special than when he himself took note of their depth. He didn't notice Alexander's overeagerness to introduce himself, even though the day at camp had been long and strenuous, and any ordinary man would be instead eager to finally shut his eyes lay rest. Alexander was no ordinary man, however, and so Lafayette credited his excitement to his unfathomable inability to slow down. The man was non-stop.

It seemed as though Hamilton could speak endlessly, effortlessly presenting his brilliant thoughts in a beautiful tapestry of words. He almost never stopped talking, which made it all the more noticeable when he did.

Those times were miniscule - tiny pauses that one would miss if not paying close attention. But the marquis payed attention. And so he learned that sometimes Alexander would be in the middle of a long rant, and his Laurens would place a friendly hand on his shoulder and Alexander would look at him and smile and close his inexhaustible mouth just briefly before he went on talking about god knows what. One of those times, Lafayette finally realized what was evident all along. Love. He saw it in the way they looked at one another, spoke to each other, in the way Laurens was the only soul on camp who could coax the other into setting aside his work, who could persuade him to "sleep, Hamilton!"

"Not now, Laurens. There is much to be done yet."

"and we can do all of that and more come morning, but now you must rest." The exasperation was clear in John's voice, and he sighed dramatically when his pleas were met with indifference. "Do you believe, perhaps, that you do not require the sleep that myself and the rest of the human race view as a necessity? That you can simply go on forever, without closing your eyes for the briefest of moments? Do you believe you are somehow special?”

At this, Hamilton finally turned to look at him. "Am I not special to you, my dear Laurens?" He asked this with a teasing tone but his eyes, filled with affection, betrayed him. John's reply was soft, almost inaudible to the marquis, who laid half asleep in his own bed across the room.

"Do not ask such a thing, my dear boy" he reached down to tuck a stray piece of red hair behind Alexander's ear. "You are well aware of the partiality that I hold for you, and it is this same part of me that wishes for your wellbeing, and prays that you sleep."

For a moment Alexander said nothing, just closed his eyes and let out a long breath he didn't know he was holding. Then he stood.  
"Very well. I'd be a fool to attempt to refuse you. It is simply beyond my power to do so." He was teasing again, but the truth of the statement resonated throughout the nearly silent room. Soon they were in bed, and if perhaps they slept closer to each other than strictly necessary, Lafayette was sure it was only for the purpose of extra body heat.  
  
John Laurens sometimes had bad days. Days where he would talk only when he needed, and with less conviction. Days when he would lose focus of his work, and would let his meals go untouched. Days when he would shrug off worriers, dismissing his mood as "simply tired." Hamilton was not so easily convinced. The young immigrant, usually ignited with intense energy, grew gentle on these days. He would follow his Laurens closely, sit with him whenever possible (which was a familiar habit anyways, but the two were especially inseparable on the Bad Days), and speak to him in soft assurances. On one of these days, John announced he would be taking a walk, and when he hadn't returned within two hours, Lafayette set off with an anxious Hamilton to locate him. They found him standing silently at the edge of a bluff, contemplating the distance to the riverbed below. Alexander clasped a hand over his mouth and stood frozen, eyes wide, as Lafayette shouted french profanities and ran to pull John away. John had collapsed into Alex's arms, sobbing and uttering apologies, over and over saying "sorry sorry I'm so sorry" to which Alex had responded with hushes and "it's alright"s. Later, when it was dark and the camp was asleep, the marquis could hear them whispering.

"You frightened me earlier. More than a little"

"I'm sor-"

"Shhh. No more apologies, my dear Laurens." A pause. "I love you. Immeasurably so. I only ask that you do not leave me prematurely." He intended to sound firm in his request, but his voice faltered, and it came out as a plead.

That night, Lafayette came to the conclusion that he never wanted to see a day where John Laurens was without his Alexander.

Apparently, the gods above were not so considerate.

The battle of Brandywine was a disaster, a near fatal loss for the revolution. It also managed to injure both Laurens and the marquis. Both, of course, insisted that they were well enough to resume their duties, despite the musket balls they took to the ankle and leg, respectively. The general begrudgingly allowed them to continue working, on the condition that they compose correspondence in his private office rather than in the crowded aides workplace, to spare them any further injury. He did not anticipate, however, the effect this would have on Hamilton. He claimed to be downright _distraught_. He was “astonished and offended” that Washington would separate him from his two closest companions, especially when they were "in dire need of a good friend's assistance; somehow _both_ of these idiots have found themselves in a similar predicament." Here, Hamilton glared accusingly at the two, as if they had _asked_ to be shot (to be fair, at least one of them hadn't exactly made an attempt to prevent it). But to allow him to join his friends would have been perceived as favoritism, and therefore he was to remain with the other aides. Washington quickly discovered the faults in this separation. Hamilton was restless, making his rounds to the office almost twice an hour, unfocused on work that would ordinarily consume him. That is why the general made a decision.

Captain Henry Lee's seven-man convoy was preparing to leave for their mission on the Schuylkill river, with intentions to destroy flour mills on the other side in order to prevent approaching British troops from using them to their advantage. Hamilton was restless, and the objective was simple. The seven men became eight.

It was not a particularly short time before Lee's return, nor was it long enough to spur worry. But the captain's sullen face when he reentered Washington's tent was sufficient to strike fear in him, stomach filling with dread. "Full report, Captain Lee. Did you manage to eliminate the mills?"

Lee avoided the general's eyes, hands fidgeting, as he replied. "We... mostly, sir. We burned up the majority of them, sir."

"Then why do you look as though you've seen a ghost?"

"Your Excellency, sir, we ran into some complications," Lee looked toward the ground before continuing. "We were spotted, sir, by the redcoats. We were forced to return across the river in a haste. We suffered... losses."

Washington sighed, irritation evident in his voice. "I have an army to lead, Captain. May I entreat you to speak with concision, rather than waste away our ti-"

"Alexander Hamilton was one of the casualties, sir."

Washington's expression hardened as he gripped the edge of his desk. Lee continued speaking, likely relaying information on how it happened, what exactly went so wrong. But Lafayette had stopped listening by this point. His hands instinctively covered his face, tears already threatening to spill over. His ears must have betrayed him. He must have heard incorrectly. Alexander Hamilton could not be dead. It was simply impossible. Was it not just yesterday that the same Alexander Hamilton was worrying and fretting about _ses amis_? Was it not just this morning that he was, not for the first time, scolding a guilty looking Laurens for his recklessness?

_Laurens_.

Lafayette turned slowly to the man seated next to him. Laurens wasn't crying. He seemed to be in shock, eyes wide and empty. He was frozen, unmoving. Lafayette placed a hand on his arm, whispered to him, " _mon ami?_ "

Then his face fell. He closed his eyes tightly and his chin began to tremble. Someone might as well have printed "DEVASTATION" on John's forehead for how clearly it was written in his expression. Immeasurable despair was all too evident in his voice when he gasped out " _Alexander_ ," as if uttering his name was the single most painful thing he had ever endured. And he had just been shot.

Lafayette's heart broke, for his dear Hamilton, who was gone before he'd had the chance to change the world and for poor, poor Laurens. Laurens, who looked like he would never smile again. Laurens who looked up at Lafayette with pleading eyes and begged him to tell him it wasn't true, tell him his sun hadn't just been robbed from the very sky. And when Lafayette shook his head, they both broke, sobbing into each other for God knows how long. At some point Washington sullenly placed a bottle of whiskey in front of them, and then the two drank. The pain never went away, but about halfway through the bottle it became duller, less like it was going to tear them apart from the inside. Lafayette, even in his intoxicated state, had had the sense to clear any knives from John's vicinity, fearing the loss of yet another dear friend. He absently wondered, though, if it was cruel to deny a man if he so desperately wished to be reunited with the one thing that made him feel whole.

When this war was over, Lafayette would return home to his dear Adrienne, perhaps start a family, and he knew that Alexander’s place in his heart would heal, with time. He had a feeling that Laurens would not be so lucky. Late at night he had sometimes spoken of his life before the war. Losing his mother. His father, rather lacking in kindness, in understanding. His brother, whose death he blamed himself for. Once even, he confided in the marquis about his wife and daughter, an ocean away, and the guilt he felt for leaving them, without intentions of returning. He only knew pain, it seemed, until Alexander had taught him love. And now that too had been taken from him.

Around three in the morning, the marquis was startled awake by a shout. The first thing he felt was annoyance. And then it all came back to him. Laurens had not awoken, though he was tossing and turning and whimpering in his sleep like a hurt puppy. There was another shout, a cheer, and Lafayette’s annoyance was replaced with anger. It was beyond him how anyone could even think of celebrating when Alexander Hamilton, whose words could move mountains, was dead. He threw on his coat and boots and stormed (limped) outside, fists already balled in preparation for contact with the perpetrator of this unforgivable crime. There was laughter coming frohm the general’s office, only fueling Lafayette’s rage. He burst into the room.

“Who the _fuck_ -”

“Lafayette!”

He turned to identify the owner of the voice. It could not be.

“ _Alexandre_?”

“ _Oui, c’est moi_. Contrary to popular belief, _je ne suis pas mort!_ ” Hamilton, seemingly back from the dead, smirked smugly. Lafayette rushed him, paying no mind to his dripping wet clothes as he engulfed the smaller man in an embrace.

“ _Mon Dieu_. I was so frightened for you, _mon petit lion_. I thought that you...” he paused, choking up a bit, “I was led to believe that you were gone.”

Alexander laughed, “My dear Lafayette, I’m afraid you cannot rid yourself of me that easily.”

“But how? We were informed by Lee that you were had met your end.”

Hamilton looked ready to delve into the story, but Washington cleared his throat, cutting him off. Lafayette had forgotten he was there, in all of his excitement.

Washington spoke with audible relief in every word. He cared for Hamilton more than he liked to let on. “I am certain we are all simply trembling in anticipation of this riveting tale. However I do wonder if there is someone crucial who should be informed of your… resurrection, so to speak.”

That wiped the stupid grin off of Alex’s face. He practically ran out of the door, Lafayette trailing several steps behind. When he reached the door to their shared bedroom, he took a deep breath before entering.

Laurens was sitting straight up in the bed, unmoving, awake now, but still visibly shaken from his recent nightmare. Hamilton rushed to him.

“Hi. I’m n-”

He was cut off by a scream. It came from John, who’s eyes were now filled with pain and terror.

“No no no. Please no!” He begged to an unseen force, “Do not take him from me again.” He looked back at Alex. “ _Get away from me!_ ”

And then he was crying, frantically trying to push Hamilton away until he collapsed with a sob. With his head in his hands he gasped out a barely audible “ _please_.”

Slowly taking John’s hands in his own, Alexander’s words spilled out. “My dear Laurens, _mon coeur_ , my love,” he gently lifted John’s chin, using his thumb to wipe away a tear, “I am very much alive, _mon cher_. I would not dream of leaving you. Not in a million years.”

“ _Alexander_.”

And together, maybe they would be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> What a mess. I am an impatient person, so I made less revisions than I probably should have. Oh well.  
> Hamilton being presumed dead after Brandywine was a real thing that happened, a beautiful Angst goldmine. I kept the timeline deliberately vague because in real life this incident would have happened only one or two months after Hamilton met Laurens and Lafayette, so they may not have been as heavily affected by the bad news. 
> 
> I was too lazy to research the accommodations the aides-de-camp would have had so I improvised. It is actually likely that Hamilton and Laurens shared a bed at some point, though. Also Lafayette probably wouldn't have been running around after being shot in the leg but hey, he needed to narrate.  
> French translations (even though I tried to keep it simple (because if I made it complicated I would confuse myself)):  
> ses amis - his friends  
> mon ami - my friend  
> oui, c'est moi - yes, it's me  
> je ne suis pas mort - I am not dead  
> mon dieu - my god  
> mon petit lion - my little lion (an actual nickname for Hamilton)  
> mon coeur - my heart  
> mon cher - my dear
> 
> Lastly, I know, my exploitation of italics is disgraceful, I'm working on that.


End file.
